


Hold On Tight They'll Muddle Through

by jesshelga



Category: One Day at a Time (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Family Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Male-Female Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-08 10:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesshelga/pseuds/jesshelga
Summary: Slow dances, late-night friendship hangs, '90s radio hits, and very literally hot flirtations--seven-ish days and/or nights in the ongoing relationship between Penelope Alvarez and Schneider.





	1. I Can’t Read the Future/But I Still Want to Hold You Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penelope Alvarez loves dancing and loves '90s ballads; Schneider loves Penelope's dress. It's a match made in heaven.

Penelope was resting, both her feet and her general sense of well-being, after more than 20 minutes on the dance floor, enjoying the sensation of no shoes and her third glass of riesling of the night, when Schneider zipped into view, face alight with excitement.

The sight of him clean shaven and sharply dressed was still discombobulating, so she could only nod when he extended his hand and said (with no context), “Our song’s next, Pen. No time for shoes.”

Moments later, holding his hand at the edge of the dance floor, she found her words. “‘Our song? ’This isn’t going to be ‘Rosanna’ or, like, Boz Scaggs, is it?”

Scoffing, he replied, “I’m well aware of your stone heart when it comes to the classics. No, Alex told me about your beloved Toni Braxton cassingle so I figured out the perfect song for our first slow dance.”

“This is Elena’s quinces, not our homecoming dance.”

“Oh, it’s about to be.” He paused. “You know, my boarding school didn’t have a homecoming dance. We didn’t have a football team. We had dances but… you know, recitals, not…”

“Yes, yes, I know. I remember the documentary all about it. Your teacher was Debbie Allen, right?”

A “pfft” and a tighter grip on her hand was his only reply. The last chords of “Azucar” played and began to blend with a familiar, soaring combination of piano, strings, and electric guitar. Despite herself, Penelope found herself sighing. She hadn’t heard Jon Secada for at least 20 years.

“See?” Schneider placed one hand on her back and pulled her close. “Though if you ask me, Kenny Loggins has it all over this guy.”

It was Pen’s turn to “Pfft.” She allowed herself to sink a little closer towards his lanky frame and appreciate his--well, grace on the dance floor...though she’d never tell him so. What purpose could compliments serve at this juncture of the evening? In their friendship?

“I haven’t had the chance to tell you,” he said, interrupting her train of thought, his words mingling with the lyrics-- _Mi vida yo tratare de olvidarte/Pero la luz de tus ojos_ \--”That’s quite a dress you have on.”

Words once again deserted her. Damn his unexpected, well-groomed, non-yoga-panted charms. She settled for a wearily sighed “Schneider…”

“Hey, you told me how nice I looked earlier today. It’s only fair I return the compliment.”

She pressed her cheek to his chest. “Okay. Thank you.”

They swayed together, she and Schneider and Jon Secada, until the out-of-place-but-still-catchy-and-very-’90s guitar solo began. He twirled, then dipped her; despite herself, she giggled.

He beamed in reply and swooped her up to standing again. “See? Sometimes I get things right.”

The memory of his face across the dance floor, sadly shaking his head, communicating to her Victor’s disappearance…then, moments later, looking into her eyes, touching his cheek lightly to hers as she held Elena, tugged another sigh from her.

“Sometimes,” she murmured with faux reluctance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy as much Jon Secada as you can, either in English or Spanish: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E9kIqR2HsEE


	2. Brand Recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An emotional late night visit to Schneider's apartment and some gentle makeup maintenance...

He had no armor for Penelope’s tears.

They greeted him upon opening his door, half hidden by her quickly flapping hands. He stepped out of her way and she walked a few steps in, tried to begin a sentence, then sobbed into her hands. He bundled her into his arms, where she huddled, not resisting the embrace, but not returning it, pressing her elbows into his chest… which was almost as uncomfortable as the unbidden tears prickling in _his_ eyes.

“Is everyone okay? Is your mom okay? The kids?”

“Yes, yes… it’s just… Victor is _so_ obstinate and terrible. He wouldn’t talk to Elena on Facetime tonight. He talked to Alex and then _hung up_ when Elena took the phone. She cried and cried until she fell asleep. I just _hate_ him for this.”

“Good. He’s an asshole... who I am _definitely_ not afraid of.”

Her laughter was muffled by both his shirt and her sniffling. With her laughter came a sudden awareness of how much of her was pressed against him, softness he’d occasionally pondered that was now very much against the thinness of his tee shirt.

“I’m sorry,” she said, breaking away, and he already missed her terribly, a yearning he didn’t know a person could feel for someone who was inches away. “Mami is out with Dr. Berkowitz at the Philharmonic. _West Side Story_. I feel like Dr. Berkowitz is doing this on purpose at this point.”

“Hmm,” he replied. It didn’t seem appropriate to say, “Come back here.”

She rubbed her sleeve across her face, which was enough to spur him into action. “Oh… oh, no, Pen, here,” grabbing several Puffs tissues and thrusting them at her. She laughed as she dabbed at her running mascara and eyeliner. “I can always count on you to go name brand.”

Tentatively he reached out and touched her elbow, brushing at her long enough to think again, for what seemed like an eternity, about those seconds of intense consciousness of her--her hair tickling against the neckline of his shirt, her little palms pressed into his sternum, her… well, it was ungentlemanly but very on brand for him to have noticed the two _significant_ bits of her anatomy heaving against him…

“I must be a mess.” She looked nervously around with her handful of used tissues, and he opened the trash can with the foot pedal for her.

“You’re not. You’re never a mess, even when you’re all smudgy.”

In response, she grabbed more tissues and glared. “Thanks.”

He grabbed one too and said, “Here. Let me.” He put a hand on her shoulder and, with his free pointer finger, tilted her chin up.

“You smell very expensive,” she murmured.

“It’s just the Puffs. Only the finest cotton.”

“Thank you.” She didn’t say it so much as breathed it. It wafted across to him on a cloud of cinnamon and he leaned towards her, trying to ignore the nagging voice of his therapist echoing in the inner recesses of his head ( _Schneider, sometimes it’s valuable to let yourself_ **_feel_ ** _\--feel sadness, feel anger, feel anxious--without immediately following it with a sexual experience. You’ve managed to get sober… but you still need to work on controlling compulsion_ ) and kissed her temple gently.


	3. Taking Personal Inventory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Penelope aka Batwoman answers the call when Schneider faces a challenge to his recovery.

Schneider was calling. Not texting, not Instagram direct messaging. Calling.

She picked up and joked, “Hey, it’s the 10th of the month and I paid the rent, so what gives, landlord?”

The other end of the line was filled with the discordant sound of too-loud music that was clearly too young for a 40-year-old white man to be immersing himself in. “Did you butt dial me, Schneider? Please, _please_ tell me you didn’t. Ugh.”

Cutting through the distorted bass, Schneider’s voice, a strained whisper, said, “No, I’m here. Hey, I’m… sorry, are you in the middle of something?”

She felt her forehead immediately crease into a well-worn track carved from 16-plus years of maternal instinct. “Are you okay? What is going on?”

The blaring music filled in for a second or two, then his whisper came back on the line. “I’m fine, but… could you come and get me?”

Penelope was heading towards the door, keys in hands, before she asked, “Where are you?”

 

***

 

The door to the CR-V popped open and, like Pavlov’s bell, the sound elicited a “What happened?” that Penelope normally reserved for Alex.

He took his glasses off and cleaned them as he said, by way of explanation, “Met a gal--you know, like I do--and we went out to catch some live music and, well, one thing led to another, and she offered me heroin.”

Turning off the engine and unclicking her seatbelt, Penelope said, “That took a left turn.”

“I couldn’t get ahold of my sponsor and you seemed like the next best course of action.”

Without a second thought, she took Schneider’s hand. “I’m glad you called.”

He responded by squeezing her hand and popping his glasses back on his face. “I’m glad you answered. I figured you would see that it was an emergency since I didn’t text.”

“Yes, it was like my own little Schneider Batsignal.”

He looked at her fondly. “That would make me Batman, and as flattering as that is, you’re the hero of this piece.”

She squeezed his hand back. “Aww… _soy_ Batwoman.” Then she added, “Are you okay? Should I do anything else? I can have Siri teach me, maybe?”

“No, this is good. I mean, eventually we’ll go home. But… this is good right now.” He sighed and threw his head back against the headrest. “Have you ever taken heroin?”

“Never ever.”

“Good.”

She looked searchingly at his profile. “Schneider?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you… what happened five years ago?”

He looked at her and smiled, but it was tight with anxiety. “Aww, Pen… don’t you like things the way they are now? Where I’m the charming and goofy next door neighbor?”

“Of course I do. Also ‘goofy’ I’ll give you, but ‘charming’ might be an overstatement.” She brought his hand to her lips and kissed it with a dramatic smack. “But I also love you no matter what.”

Their interlaced hands hit the passenger armrest with an ever more dramatic smack. Schneider said, in a rush of air, “Wow.”

“What?”

He looked at her wonderingly for several quiet moments, and just as Penelope began to realize what she’d said with a comfortable sort of thoughtlessness, he replied, “And you _meant_ it. You _mean_ it.”

She laughed, a sound that reached her own ears jangling with worry. “Of course I mean it.” Her inner Penelope asked her _When did this happen? Why are you still holding his hand? Why can’t you make a joke?_ _Make a joke, Lupe! Say anything!_

In response, he leaned a millimeter forward in her direction. “Other than my mother, no one has ever said that to me.”

Sadness flooded her, and it was almost a relief. “Oh, Schneider.”

His forehead creased with a heavy thought. “And I love you too. When did that happen? Why are we still holding hands? Why aren’t you making any jokes?”

She couldn’t decide what was spookier: the psychic moment or how welcome it was to hear the words returned.

“Wow,” he said again.

Her sharpness returned in full force. “Stop saying ‘wow.’”

“I only said it twice. I think.” Even through the dark interior of the car she could see his eyes, magnified by the lenses, tenderly owlish.

“Well… still. Stop.” She looked at their hands, still locked together, and unlaced her fingers, then reflexively reached back out and patted his wrist. Then she started the car, if only to give herself something else to do.

I OD’ed. Took a bad cocktail of pills and about a gallon of very carefully muddled cocktails. That’s what happened five years ago. Got hauled to the hospital, narrowly avoided getting arrested for possession. Completing an in-patient program was part of a deal Father’s lawyers cut.”

She didn’t feel like she had the right to say it out loud, so she only said “Wow” to herself in the safety of her brain.

“Do you still love me?” His tone was light but when she looked away from the road and at him for a split second, she could feel his vulnerability.

She socked him in the upper arm. “Don’t be stupid.”

She did. She did still love him. When _did_ that happen?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is taken from Step 4 of AA (and NA): seeking internal truth. And I wrote this prior to Schneider's pretty outstanding "woke up in the gutter" story.


	4. A Little Sweet, A Little Sour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Southern California is on fire, and a spark becomes a flame. Also there are frozen treats.

As usual, Southern California was on fire and 100+ degrees, but it didn’t stop Alex’s baseball team and their journey to the playoffs.They were between games, the kids alternating between warming up and goofing off, and Schneider sat with Penelope, Lydia, and Elena in a blessed sliver of shade.

In one word, Schneider was miserable. He couldn’t keep the complaining inside. “I’m from British Columbia. I’m meant to be kept cool.”

The women all, in their own unique ways, ignored him.

“I’m _wilting._ ” Nothing. Elena looked at her phone. Lydia read her magazine. Pen sat quietly, her sunglasses revealing nothing, but Schneider felt as though he could _hear_ her eyes rolling. “Well, if I die of heatstroke, I want you to…” jingling bells interrupted him and he stood so fast he turned over his camping chair, “Oh, thank God and...Lydia, pick a saint!”

“Saint Barbara,” Lydia murmured, flipping a page.

“I’ll come with you to help.” Penelope stood, grabbing her wristlet. “Mami, Elena… the usual?”

Both ladies nodded, their attention unwavering.

The walk to the raspado cart meant heading into the sun. The rays hit him and he groaned in protest. “Every year… every year this happens in September, I _swear_ I’m going back north.”

“What stops you? Afraid the Mounties will throw you over a horse and send you back?”

“Ha ha ha ha ha _ha_. How can you be so calm about this? The sun is trying to murder us all.”

“Well, for starters, I’m wearing a tank top, which is basically like I’m wearing my bra out and about. You should try it.”

“I don’t think I could pull it off with the aplomb you do.” He found himself looking at her a little too long, long enough for her to catch him.

“A moment ago you were dying of heatstroke.”

“Maybe I’m still dying of heatstroke. Perhaps this is a Jacob’s Ladder scenario, and I’m dying, and in my final moments, instead of giving me grief, you’re going to find my awkward attempts to flirt with you charming.”

They reached the raspado cart, and Penelope looked up at him, her aviators revealing nothing, her mouth a peculiarly severe straight line. “I like this, Schneider, this self-awareness you have about being awkward.”

He clutched at his chest. “Oh, my word, _half_ a compliment! I really _am_ dying.”

She ignored him, turning her attention to the young man preparing a cone full of ice. “ _Tamarindo_ , _por favor._ ” Then she turned back to point at him.

“Me? Aren’t you ordering for Lydia and Elena?”

Penelope shrugged, taking her cone. “Why don’t we have ours first?”

He felt suddenly and uncomfortably on his guard, bracing for the worst. Their lease was coming up soon. Perhaps she’d found another place, closer to Dr. Berkowitz’s office or to campus. He knew the 3-plus-hour classes two nights a week were killing her. Might as well take this in while enjoying her company and a cucumber-flavored shaved ice.

Cones in hand, they wandered under the limited shade of a nearby tree. “I wanted to say something… something serious,” she said, after a moment or two of silence and cone nursing.

“Okay,” he said, with what he hoped was nonchalance but sounded like a low-grade panic.

“What you did for Alex, helping him get involved in this league… it was wonderful. I really appreciate it. He made friends…”

“Not all of them are great. In fact, there's a couple who are _real_ dicks.”

Penelope let out a peal of laughter, and Schneider felt relief flood through him (though he was still hot and sticky and _why Lord why is this place like the interior of a volcano_ ). She wasn’t leaving or, even worse, getting engaged. She was saying thank you.

In fact, she said it again. “...regardless of that, thank you.”

“Okay, okay, enough. All this gratitude and kindness… I could get used to it.”

She smiled like Mona Lisa and worked on her cone. He watched her, then looked out at the field, trying mightily to think of baseball and not her red mouth against the orange ice.

“Schneider?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want to try it?”

Startled, he looked back to her. She had her cone extended. The corners of her mouth were tipped up.

He cleared his throat. “Uh… tamarind? I… I don’t know.”

She stepped a little closer to him. He stepped backwards, bumping into the trunk of the tree. Oh God, he thought. He _had_ died of heatstroke. Or he’d passed out and this was a hallucination, like when a man dying of thirst saw an oasis. His oasis happened to be Penelope Alvarez in a tank top and sunglasses, seducing him with innuendo and an unfamiliar syrup.

He put his fingers on hers. They were there. Her hand was there, and her skin was just as warm as his from the sun. He leaned forward, and she watched him with her Val-Kilmer-as-Iceman stone face.

He tried it and was snapped out of his trance, a grimace gripping his face. “ _Pen!_ Uck!”

She laughed again. “Not a fan, huh? I like it. A little sweet, a little sour.”

“Fits you, I guess,” he said, returning to his cone, the reverie broken.

“15 minutes ago, you wanted into my tank top, and now I’m ‘Uck.’”

“You’re also a little sweet.” He realized they were still standing close, close enough that he could smell the tamarind and the sunblock on her skin. His need to state the obvious pressed on him. “Pen… were you _purposely…_ ”

She smirked and murmured, “I warned you about those Boyz II Men days, didn’t I?”

Schneider leaned forward and took her sunglasses off. Even as she squinted against the sun, he could see her--her nervousness, her seriousness. It was her. It wasn’t a mirage. He wobbled a little, or at least he could have sworn he did. He definitely dropped his cone.

Then he kissed her. It was too hot, he was dying and he would not buy another cone, but he kissed her.

After a few seconds, she pulled away and sucked in what sounded like enough air for a hot air balloon. “We should get back.”

“Right. Of course. The game. And your… oh, boy, your mother.”

“Don’t forget my kids. Let’s make the chill really take hold.”

He steeled himself against the urge to joke it off, fall into their usual rhythm and routine. After all, he told himself, he _could_ , on _occasion,_ charm even the most jaded of LA ladies. He put a hand on her hip, and said, with every ounce of confidence he could muster, “There isn’t enough raspado in all of Los Angeles County, Penelope Alvarez.” He was pleased to see her eyelashes flutter and her lips part slightly. He leaned away, handed her sunglasses to her nonchalantly, and confidently walked into the sun.

 

***

 

Alex’s team lost. Pizza was had and air conditioning enjoyed. Returning to his apartment, Schneider thought over the day’s events and had himself mostly convinced that kissing Penelope under the shade of a tree was a fevered imagining caused by too much sun and not enough water and probably all the terrible fantasies he’d had since that night he’d held her in his apartment, looking closely at her lovely face, taking care of her and her _letting_ him take care of her.

And then there was a tapping at his door. Quick, faint, sounding both hesitant and insistent.

He threw the door open, and Penelope pushed him back into his apartment, kicking the door closed behind her

 

***

 

 _Fooled around._ That was what they had done. In the vernacular of baseball, no home run was hit (and that was all thanks to Pen, the voice of reason even in their mutual madness). Lots of over-the-pajamas, a little bit of tasteful nudity, and some mutual satisfaction that he felt could have ruined him for other women for the foreseeable future, so powerfully compelling were her breathy little gasps for air and the press of her writhing against him.

For a while, they lay on their backs on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking their private thoughts--to be honest, his were mostly a string of garbled consonants that were equal parts euphoric joy and intense terror and doubt--and then she turned to him and quietly said, “I see why all the ladies want to stay overnight at your apartment… but I’d better head back.”

He rolled over to face her. Without his glasses, he could only make out a mass of curls. From the context of her tone, he couldn’t tell whether she was feeling even a sliver of his giddiness, but from her words, he knew the terror and doubt were definitely setting in for her as well.

It wasn’t the moment to blurt “I’m crazy about you,” so he restrained himself. He settled for kissing her until she pulled away and repeated, “I”d better head back.”

“Okay,” he whispered into the dark. “See you in the morning.”

She stood at the foot of the bed for a moment, and he could almost feel the air filled with the ghosts of several dozen one-night-stands that ended in the words “I’ll text you.” Perhaps like Jacob Marley, he was doomed to wear the chains he’d forged in life--evasive, dismissive chains--and he would now hear Penelope retract his Alvarez-Riera access, take away his visitation rights to the warm kitchen, the maternal grace of Lydia, the kids alternately joshing him and palling around with him… and that would be worse, _so_ much worse than not ever getting to settle his hand on Pen’s hip and press his nose into the hollow of her throat while she wrapped her legs around him…

...well, maybe it would be a photo finish.

She knelt by the edge of the bed and put a hand on his face. “You gotta keep it cool. I’m not ready for my mother to know about this, and I _definitely_ don’t think you’re prepared for my mother to know about this.”

“I can be cool, Pen.”

She kissed him, and he reached for her, unable to suppress a moan that was decidedly uncool.

“See?” she said, lips still pressed to his. “So maybe tomorrow no breakfast, okay?”

“Okay,” he conceded, curling a hand around the back of her neck. “But I can come to dinner, right?”


	5. Our Sister of Perpetual Lasciviousness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Penelope Alvarez channels Judy Blume and Margaret

Mami, Elena, and Alex were at church, and Penelope was having her own private conversation with God.

_ Are you there, God? It’s me, Penelope. Ha ha ha, you get that a lot, I bet. Sorry. Anyway, just wanted to have a little chat. It’s about Schneider. Well, about me and Schneider. _

_ I know, I know. You don’t approve of fornication. Frankly, I don’t approve. Well, barely. You know, in  _ theory.

_ I mean,  that’s why I’m talking to You. Remember when I admitted he was my best friend? That should have been enough, right? That should have told us to stay in the Friend Zone in perpetuity. Then Max and I broke up. That was okay eventually. Other fish in the sea, right? I mean, You specifically assisted your Son in multiplying fish. I assume that extends to creating more single men in their mid 30s to late 40s. _

_ And then Schneider kissed me. I figured one day it would happen. I convinced myself it would be weird, and the two of us would both laugh it off, like Mary Richards and Lou Grant. _

_ As you know, God, that didn’t happen. We didn’t laugh. As a matter of fact, later that night, I believe you may have heard me taking Your name in vain as he… well, You were there.  _

_ Yikes. I mean, I know You’re all-seeing but… I hope eventually you tuned into some other channel for a while. _

_ Anyway, if it had ended  _ there… _ if it had just been one crazy night, and we hadn’t, You know, gone all the way… _

_...but then the next day, he stopped by to fix my bedroom door… _

_ …okay, that was a lie. I texted him to fix my bedroom door, and there was nothing wrong with the bedroom door. I demonstrated that by closing it and telling him he could drill me instead. He laughed. I laughed.  _

_ That was the first time. I mean, God, can you please explain to me how You allowed that to happen? That was a  _ terrible _ joke. Neither of us should have laughed, much less taken our clothes off. _

_ You could have at least made the sex awful. God, couldn’t you have made Schneider be bad at--you know,  _ things?  _ Or if he HAD to be good at  _ things,  _ then you could have made him not so wonderful and warm at snuggling. I learned that the first time I fell asleep in his apartment. Lord, waking up with him spooning me with all his muscular limbs, breathing into my hair… _

_ See? Can’t You, in Your infinite wisdom… _

There was a knock at the door.

_ Oh, Lord God, You wouldn’t… _

“Pen?”

_ … _

“I owe you a foot massage. And we don’t even have to… you know… since it’s Sunday.”

_ Oh, that’s not even fair, God. It’s like You  _ want  _ me to do this. _


	6. Boyz II Schneider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sort of a Chapter 5.5, in which Schneider continues to use music as a way to Penelope's heart. Or pants.

Schneider did not like the look on Penelope’s face when she opened the door. It wasn’t a new look. In fact, it had quickly become a very familiar look.

“I was just thinking about you,” she said. The tone suggested it was not sexy thoughts.

“I meant what I said. My intentions are pure. I want to…” Schneider’s next words were meant to be “Spend time with you.” But he was hung up on the glimpse of decolletage peeking out from her tee shirt, which inevitably led to the memory of slipping her shirt off over her head a few nights earlier while on his couch. So instead, uncalculated and unbidden, he said, “...make love to you. Like you want me to.”

Penelope pursed her lips and put a defiant fist on her hip. “Schneider, don’t you bring Boyz II Men into this.”

Searching her face for a single hint of actual resistance and finding instead that her eyes were already smoldering, his fingers grazed her neck, plucked at a single curl. “Girl, relax...let’s go slow.”

“Schneider…” Her voice lowered half an octave and she grabbed a fistful of the hem of his shirt.

“Pen, Pen, Pen... whatever you ask me, you  _ know  _ I can do.”

She said, “ _ Bobo _ ” so tenderly, he swept her into his arms, in imitation of countless telenovela heroes he’d studied over the years.


	7. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia is on the case with a little help from Catholic guilt (by proxy)

If there was one thing Schneider had less armor for than Penelope’s tears, it was Lydia’s pointed questioning. And the day he was dreading had finally arrived.

The only surprise was that it took her a month.

The two of them stood together at the kitchen island, drinking coffee, and Lydia had been very quiet. Ominously quiet. Normally Schneider would have filled it with nervous chatter, but he was afraid that any time he opened his mouth, all the secrets would come tumbling out in a knotted tangle of truth.

He wondered if Lydia’s Catholicism was rubbing off on him.

_ Well, her daughter is rubbing off on you, if you know what I mean,  _ Schneider’s inappropriate inner voice began.

_ Shut UP, _ Schneider’s Catholicism-by-proxy shushed guiltily.  _ She will HEAR you. She can sense it. LOOK at her. _

Lydia sipped her _ caf _ _ é  _ _ cubano _ and watched him with her bright, knowing eyes.

“Schneider,” she said coolly, “I have noticed you have had no  _ jeva _ for some time now. I have not  seen your fancy silken dressing gown with the S”--to emphasize, she drew a serpentine figure in the air between them with her immaculately painted pointer finger.

_ Like SATAN,  _ Schneider’s guilt blurted into the void of his mind, and his fingers itched to make an attempt at the Sign of the Cross.

“That S may stand for Schneider, but I know it also stands for another S word. The Schneider I know doesn’t ever go too long without his S robe.”

The emphasis on the final two words was chilling. Schneider shuddered.  _ There’s another S word, Schneider. Shudder. Hey, speaking of that, you also did that last night on top of… _

_ You. Are. Going. To. Get. Us. Killed. Shuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut. Up. _

Lydia coughed politely. Passive-aggressively. Then said, “You know who appears to be getting S, quite secretly, is my beautiful  _ hija _ Lupe. In fact, she snuck in this morning at _ cuatro en punto de la mañana _ .”

“Oh?” Schneider managed. It felt as though his Adam’s apple was a buoy, bobbing in a sea of deceit.

“ _ Sí. _ ” She then flashed four fingers between them. 

Four perfectly manicured accusations.

_ Oh, my Lydia, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee… _

“Well, you know… Pen is a grown woman. And… if she has a little something-something, maybe it’s just... fun. Maybe it’s not that serious.”

“Oh?” Lydia said, in her very best imitation of him.

“I’m not saying it’s not serious for _him!_ _He_ would never… I mean, Pen is a glorious goddess and such a wonderful, terrific person. Maybe it’s Pen who isn’t sure. And… you know, the kids and…” his hands left his coffee cup and fluttered restlessly, nervously in the space between the two of them, “... _other_ people...anyway, it’s up to her to tell you when the time is right. And maybe it will stop soon. Any minute now it could stop.”

Lydia took one of his hands in hers. “Will it?” The maternal tone nearly caused his knees to buckle.

Sucking in at least four lungs-ful of air, Schneider made what he was sure would be his last stand. “I don’t know. I mean, let’s say, hypothetically, they talk about it stopping. Both of them, at different times. And, well, most of the time those talks end in…” He paused, reversed course. “And let’s say that she already loves this guy, and he loves her back. And hypothetically this--uh, latest development--makes her--and, potentially, maybe him--very confused.”

“Eh, what is confusing about S,  _ tonto  _ Schneider?”

Like a drowning man-- _ hell, throw away the simile, Schneider, you  _ are  _ drowning, buddy _ \--he closed both his hands around her warm, trusted hand and said, “That’s just the thing, Lydia! It usually  _ isn’t _ confusing! It’s  _ very  _ straightforward in all cases but this one. What if this is Pen’s friend, her  _ best  _ friend--she said it, she can’t take it back, and it’s true! But she’d barely had time to come to terms with that before…”

Lydia opened her mouth but Schneider couldn’t stop. “...And he can’t delete her number from his phone or order her an Uber, not just because they live in the same building but because she smells  _ so _ good, and she makes him laugh, even about how guilty they both feel about sneaking around. He bought her a toothbrush, Lydia! A  _ toothbrush! _ It’s there, all the time, waiting for her. He’s waiting for her, every day, even on the days when he knows she’s too tired from work and school.”

“Oh,  _ pobrecito _ Schneider,” Lydia said, walking the short distance around the kitchen island to hug him. “Tell me everything.”

“I can’t tell you everything, Lydia! She made me  _ promise. _ ”

“A-HA!” Lydia crowed triumphantly, shoving Schneider away.

In defeat, he folded his hands and knelt at the kitchen island. “Don’t you have an emergency rosary? Holy water? One of those Jesus crackers? Have mercy on me!”


	8. Over the Threshold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pen and Schneider prepare to make their official debut

They stood at the door together. Through it, they could hear the faint sound of Lydia cooking and the family conversing. Penelope leaned back against him and said, “Are you ready?”

“After three conversations with your mother? It’s either this or I’m turning myself in for the Lindbergh baby kidnapping.”

“Mmm, I like when you call her my ‘mother’ like that. No more Lydia. I know whose side you’re on.” He clasped her hands together and pressed his chin into the crown of her head; she sighed.

“It’s not too late. For you, that is. You can head in for dinner, and I’ll go back to my apartment. Like Rapunzel… if Rapunzel used Bumble and Bumble beard oil on her hair.”

“Mami would kill me. Then she would climb into your tower and kill you. It’s now or never, and I think we now both agree that we’re...not just fooling around.” She thought, as she had many times over the past week, of standing in his kitchen with him after he’d spilled the details of Lydia’s interrogation, or the light feeling in her heart when he stumbled, unintentionally but sincerely, into telling her how very serious he was about her.

_ *** _

_ “First of all, my mother missed her calling as an FBI agent, so that’s less important to me than this detail about me being a goddess.” _

He’d looked at her with that blend of confusion and earnestness so endearingly unique to him and blurted, “ _ Of course you’re a goddess! You’re working a full-time job, going to school, taking care of Lydia when she lets you, and you still have the energy to...I mean, I have to say once again how much I enjoyed last night, particularly the finishing move…” _

_ “You’re getting off-topic.” _

_ “No, you said the topic was Penelope Alvarez: Goddess. You’re a goddess in the bedroom too. I know you’re the one in a fancy master’s program, but I think I remember a little something about providing evidence for a thesis statement.” _

_ “Hands to yourself, please, so I can ask you, very seriously: Schneider: are we...you haven’t been seeing any other women? Not on Tinder or at spin class or at kombucha brew camp?” _

_ “No! Pen, I’m… I’m crazy about you. I think you’ve effectively ruined me for dating apps for the remainder of my time on this earth. I know I’m not…” _

_ “Ooh, stop there. Stop, stop. If you’re about to compare yourself to Victor or Max… no, you’re not like them, and I know I give you a hard time, but...I never doubt that you love Elena and Alex and  _ Mami. _ And you are always there when I need you, even and  _ especially _ when I’m not...at my best. I’m crazy about you too.” _

He smiled then, his best smile, the small, shy one reserved for when he was 100% serious. “ _ This is not where I pictured this conversation going.” _

_ “Me either.” _

_ “Permission to use my hands?” _

_ “Granted.” _

_ *** _

She laced her fingers through his. “Okay… we can do this.”

  
From just above the top of her head, he said, “I’m right behind you,  _ mi diosa. _ ”


End file.
